


Army of Two

by moon_hotel



Category: Metal Slug (Video Games)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, bootlicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hotel/pseuds/moon_hotel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morden and Allen, Allen and Morden, the core of the Rebel Army. No matter how small or large their troops get, there's always at least each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Army of Two

Allen O'Neil followed the general wherever he went, like a devoted puppy dog, if a puppy dog was also a machine gun-toting killing machine. No matter how many times the Regular Army made Swiss cheese of their troops or they were double-crossed by the Mars People, Morden and Allen were somehow still alive and kicking, together.

The Rebel Army grew and shrank, and at its smallest it had just been the two of them shooting their way out of the ranks of the Regular Army, escaping through swamps or huddled together in the mountains of Peru. "I can always get more men," Morden would often say, "but a soldier like you, you're one-of-a-kind."

Allen tried to be stoic, at least during their first few years together on their own, but it was difficult. Morden talked a lot and kept nothing to himself. Sometimes he'd chatter the whole day through about his revenge on the Regular Army, peppering his rants with endless compliments on Allen's skills with a gun and his hard, sculpted prize-fighter's body. It was hard not to grow an ego.

That was how they'd ended up fucking, one night in the jungle when they were sweaty, frustrated and defeated, again down to two members after the PF Squadron had chased them out of their base. "Fascists think they can run me out of my own camp," Morden seethed, sweating bullets under his beret as he hacked his way through the underbrush with a machete. "Dogs of the Regular Army!"

He stopped in his tracks and slouched over, exhausted, as he reached up to mop the sweat from his brow. "We're setting up camp here tonight," he huffed. "How dare they…driving me out of my own base, putting me on the run like a common criminal…"

Allen set up their worn, patched-up tent as Morden pulled himself up again, letting out a frustrated roar. "Ahhh, those sons of bitches!" he shouted, driving his machete into the ground. "I'll kill them if it takes me my entire goddamn life!" 

He whipped around towards Allen, his one eye shining with a hunger that his subordinate could instantly read. "You done with that, soldier?" he asked, nodding towards the tent.

"Yessir," Allen grunted. 

"Good," said Morden. "Now strip."

Since he never wore a shirt anyway, it didn't take long, and soon Morden was on his knees between Allen's legs, his boots digging into the dark mud as he wrapped his eager lips around Allen's cock.

 

They traveled from place to place, formulating their plans, winning battles, gathering troops and inevitably losing them again, their army soon shrinking back down to Morden and Allen in a beat-up tent, with Allen pinned under the General's hungry mouth. Allen let him, first because he was completely devoted to him, and second because it was the hottest thing in the entire fucking world to come helplessly into the General's throat, hearing and feeling him growl as he forced his subordinate to empty himself between his lips. For a long, long time it was just a way for Morden to blow off steam, to exert the control he always, always needed to possess. 

A year later, with another three disastrous campaigns under their belts, General Morden assembled his paltry troops in their camp. "Go home," he told them, in a low, hoarse voice that Allen had never heard before. "It's over. The Rebel Army is finished."

The soldiers burst into a flurry of protests, sweating and flapping their hands, and Morden's face darkened. "I said _go home!_ " he bellowed, shutting up the soldiers in an instant. "You amateurs aren't worth my time! Drag your sorry hides back home or I swear to God I'll line you all up and shoot you myself!"

Allen and Morden packed up their tent, their food and their few supplies, and marched right past the last line of their soldiers. Allen said nothing, and neither did anyone else.

They walked for days through the jungles of South America, heading towards the coast. They camped each night, and each night not a word left Morden's mouth. 

One day they didn't break camp. Morden usually shook Allen awake or jolted him with the heel of his boot, but Allen woke at noon to find the General sitting in the corner of their tent, facing the wall.

"General?" Allen ventured carefully. 

"They're following us," Morden said in a dead-sounding monotone that, frankly, scared the shit out of his comrade. "Look outside."

Allen crawled to the flap of the tent and peered outside. A trail of smoke was crawling toward the sky not more than ten or twenty miles back. "The Regular Army?"

"No, not the Regular Army," Morden snapped. "Those idiot soldiers. They're following me around like a line of ducklings. Can you believe that?" Allen turned from the flap to see Morden take a big swig out of his flask. "Idiots."

Allen sat back. At least it wasn't the PF Squadron.

"Sons of bitches," Morden spat. "Maybe they'll all get eaten by snakes." A pause, and then: "I can't do it."

"What?"

"This," Morden slurred, gesturing around him. "I can't do it. I'm a piss-poor excuse for an officer if this is all I can muster." He fell quiet and took another drink, and Allen felt the silence between them tightening around his throat. 

"Sir," he ventured. "General Morden."

"What is it?" he snapped.

"Can you, uh…" Allen's voice felt clumsy in his mouth, and he tried to clear his throat. "Turn around."

Morden shifted and turned around, sitting cross-legged and glaring darkly at Allen. There were deep bags under his eye, and more than looking irritable, he just looked intensely exhausted. "What is it?" he repeated, slowly. Wordlessly Allen bent over, grabbing one of Morden's boots and gently fishing it out from under him. "What…?"

Allen pressed his lips to the toe of Morden's right boot, scuffled and worn from stomping halfway across the world. He kissed again, then again, working his way slowly up the black leather. 

The General said nothing. Allen paused and thought about pulling back, but then felt Morden's thick hand at the back of his head, pressing him down. 

"Lick it."

He did, opening his mouth and letting the leather pass over his tongue. He could taste the caked-on mud and dirt in his mouth, but he'd tasted it before, face-down in the muck with bullets stinging in his back. When Morden finally took away his hand and he pulled back, it was spotless.

"The other one," he said. Allen crawled to his other boot and licked at it eagerly, and he could hear Morden hissing out a long breath above him.

"Allen," he said, "what do you say when I give you an order?"

"Yes, sir," his subordinate said quickly, through a mouthful of boot. "Yessir, General Morden..."

"Good boy. Up here," he said, tapping him on the chin with the toe of his boot. Allen looked up to see him fishing his cock out of his dark pants, flushed and stiff. "Suck me off."

"Yes, sir!" Allen said, a little too loudly maybe, but the General's lips turned up into a smug grin as he leaned over and sucked Morden's cock into his mouth. 

He moved his head up and down with long, quick strokes, huffing hot breaths through his nose as he gripped Morden's thighs in his large hands. Morden's cock was warm and leaking in his mouth, and Allen let out a low groan as he buried his nose into his dark, dense hair with every stroke. 

Morden's muscles tensed under his fingers and he let out a long, low groan from deep in the back of his throat, building louder and louder as his cock twitched violently against Allen's tongue. Allen pushed down as Morden began to shoot into his eager mouth, and he felt a long shudder work its way through his body as Morden's hot, thick come slithered down his throat and into his stomach.

Morden pulled out of his mouth and began to zip himself up, slowly, as Allen sat back and caught his breath. "So," he said, already sounding a little more like himself, "what are you trying to tell me, soldier?"

Allen took a few gulps of breath. "You're still a general," he said, finally. "And a damn good one, sir."

 

A few hours later they showed up at the entrance to the soldiers' ramshackle camp. "Front and center, you mangy dogs!" Morden bellowed, scaring the soldiers out of their tents as he fired his gun into the air. "I want everyone in this hole in front of me, _now!_ " 

Frantically they scrambled into rows, sweating bullets under their helmets. Morden looked them up and down, with Allen standing, arms folded, behind him. "You sons of bitches have been following me for the past two days," he snapped, placing his hands behind his back and setting his legs solidly apart. "You're pathetic."

He glowered at each of them in turn, watching as they shook in their boots. "It's clear to me that you wouldn't be able to navigate your way out of a paper bag, much less a jungle. You're weak and flabby, just a bunch of scared little boys playing pretend."

He slowly pulled back his lips into a grin. "And I'm sick of babysitting your sorry asses," he said. "So if I don't see a barricade set up and the Rebel Army flag flying in twenty minutes, I'll take you all out back and shoot you myself."

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the nearest tent, with Allen and the cheers of the Rebel Army close behind.


End file.
